


Leave A Light On

by ready_to_kick_some_ass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Hallucinations, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Nightmares, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD Sherlock, Panic Attacks, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-01 07:19:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13289850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ready_to_kick_some_ass/pseuds/ready_to_kick_some_ass
Summary: Nothing happened. - Sherlock clings to that thought. But all too soon his facade begins to crumble. The world seems to collapse around him. Mycroft finally sends him to Sussex with John. A kind of forced vacation. At first, neither Sherlock nor John are very happy about it. But soon everything changes ...





	1. Nothing Happened

"Nothing happened," Sherlock says flatly.  
  
He is sitting upright in his hospital bed, staring out the window at the rooftops of a strange city.  
  
He does not look once at the therapist sitting next to him on a chair, a pad on his lap and a pen raised expectantly.  
  
"Nothing happened."  
  
It is his mantra for the next days.

*

Once, he awakes in the middle of the night, bathed in sweat and panting.  
Phantom pain hunts through his bandaged upper body.  
He turns on his stomach and presses his head into the pillow. Bites on his own hand to suppress a whimper.  
  
When the therapist comes the next day, he says, "Nothing happened, nothing that would have affected me in any way ... Get out! I want to be alone."

*

The days pass too slowly.  
Around him, people speak one of the few languages he does not understand. Croatian.  
  
Doctors and nurses come and go. A monotonous rhythm.  
They look at the wounds on his back and nod in satisfaction.  
In broken English, they tell him that everything is healing well. But a few scars will remain.  
Sherlock shrugs. He just wants to get out of here.  
  
Mycroft comes every now and then. Whenever he sits down on the chair next to Sherlock's bed, a vein twitches convulsively on his forehead. Sherlock observes this vein with mild interest.  
  
"You really should talk to the therapist ...,” Mycroft says and sighs. Sherlock knows the sigh. It's one of Mycroft's "why-do-you-have-to-make-it-so-difficult-for-everyone (me)" sighs.  
  
"What should I talk about," Sherlock says. "There's nothing to say, it's all clear."  
  
"Sherlock, what you experienced could have affected your ..."  
  
"When can I go back to London?"  
  
Mycroft stares at him. His lips are a thin line. The vein throbs even harder.  
  
"When?" Sherlock asks again, more emphatically.  
  
Mycroft lowers his eyes. He sighs. "In two days."  
  
"Good."  
  
"Will you talk to the therapist before ..."  
  
"I deleted it," Sherlock says, closing his eyes in exasperation. "I deleted it, okay? I'm fine. Nothing happened, now piss off."  
  
Mycroft silently shakes his head. He gets up and goes to the door. Just before he leaves the room, he stops and looks as if he wants to say something else. But he does not do it. He leaves without another word.  
  
Sherlock counts the hours he still has to spend in this room.  
Still too many.

*

He's back in London and everything is wrong.  
John is almost-engaged now.  
John has moved out.  
John is ... gone.  
  
His nose does not stop bleeding. Where John's fist hit him.  
He presses a handkerchief against it and runs across the street, ignoring the traffic.  
Angry car horns surround him. He does not pay attention.  
  
The world around him shimmers in bright gold colors. It's Christmas soon.  
He spent two Christmases alone, in foreign countries. In hotel rooms, he dreamed of the few – nice-ish - Christmases he had spent with John.  
  
His back throbs.  
Soon the pain, which should not be there anymore, will come back.  
Along with the new memories. Of John, who pushes him to the ground, panting angrily. Of John's eyes, so near and yet so far away, glowing with raging anger and stunned disbelief.  
He feels empty and numb.  
  
He walks past an alley and hears soft murmurs. Shadows in the dark. Pressing something into each other's hands. A silent exchange. Money against white powder.  
  
Sherlock pauses for a moment.  
Old hunger stirs in him.  
Oh, it would be so easy ...  
He still has money from Mycroft in his pockets.  
  
_No, Sherlock_ , John's voice in his head says sternly. _No._  
  
Sherlock growls angrily and walks on.  
  
Damn John Watson.

*

The thing is: John is too much.  
  
In the beginning, John was just ~~a~~ someone. Someone who came - and stayed. A rarity in Sherlock's world.  
That made John interesting.  
But it did not stop there.  
No.  
It did not stop there.  
  
In John is a hidden universe.  
He is John the doctor, with skillful, careful hands.  
But he is also John the soldier. John the soldier is brave and strong, and has a sure hand when shooting. He is ready. Ready to go to the extreme.  
  
And there is still so much more.  
John is good-natured and confident.  
John is selfless and still takes what he wants. In his very own way.  
John is fascinating.  
And when his eyes fall on Sherlock, Sherlock feels light and heavy at the same time.  
Something in his chest starts to flutter and he gets warm.  
And when John talks to him, his voice is like velvet. Sherlock could listen to this voice for all eternity.  
A whole new addiction started with John.  
An addiction that fulfilled him and yet left a stinging emptiness in his heart.  
  
He needs John around him, like he needs air to breathe.  
If John is not with him, then something is missing.  
John is his world.  
His world is John.  
  
_I fell in love with John_ , Sherlock once realized in amazement when he lay on the couch in the middle of the night and stared into the void. _I fell in love._  
The thought scared him.  
Because it reminded him that he was just human.  
That he could succumb to his emotions just like any other human.  
That he could lose control. Again.  
  
Love leads to happiness when it is reciprocated and blossoms.  
But it leads to grief and suffering when it encounters barren ground. It was dangerous to get lost in it.  
  
Sherlock did not know how he should deal with all the feelings.  
He never had lead a relationship.  
He had, of course, met men in the past whom he was attracted to. And there had been sexual experiences at times he did not like remembering. He also did not like to remember the experiences themselves. They had been full of discomfort and disappointment. And he had been drugged most of the time.  
  
And never had it been like this. Never like this.  
  
He often imagined what it would be like to kiss John, and everything in him reacted to that thought. His toes tingled, his stomach became warm and his face reddened.  
It was disturbingly intense and yet so fantastic.  
  
But while he was falling in love with John more and more, the storm that would tear them apart, was already approaching ...  
Moriarty came and he got exactly what he wanted. What he had been trying to accomplish for some reason.  
He burned Sherlock's heart out of his chest.  
Because Sherlock fell and the band that had just been tied to John tore.  
  
It was a dream that could not be lived and fell to dust.  
It was buried with Sherlock's imaginary dead body.  
It landed in a grave, around which the world continued to move inexorably. And it stayed there.  
  
He should have known.  
Actually - yes, actually - he should have known.

*

He is going crazy.  
He can feel it.  
  
It starts with the nightmares that come almost every night now.  
They feel real.  
  
A dark cellar that seems to darken even more with every dream.  
Cold ... Water is slowly dripping on his head from a broken pipe. Drip. Drip. Drip ...  
And then the blows come. They pounce on him - incessantly. The pain races through his body and makes him scream ...  
  
He almost cries with relief when he wakes up from those dreams.  
_How_ , he asks himself, when he struggles for air in the dark, _how could that happen?_  
  
He does not understand.  
Nothing … Nothing happened there.  
Of course. Yes of course. There had been the blows and the ... and the mocking and the glances and the laughter and the noise and the smell and the ...

 _Oh, God_ , Sherlock thinks, staring at the ceiling _. Oh God. What if ... what if I never get rid of it? If ... if it is always like that? If all this will happen again and again in front of my eyes? Like an endless loop?  
_  
And he's beginning to realize that he's fooled himself. SOMETHING happened. And this SOMETHING is about to destroy him.  
  
The nightmares are only the beginning.  
  
Slowly, he also develops fears of even going to sleep. He stays awake for as long as he can and stares out the window. When he sees himself in the mirror, he is frightened by the bloodshot, tired eyes staring back at him. Scared of his pale skin and the powerless curls hanging desolately in his face.  
He then often feels detached from his body.  
Feels unreal.  
_Who are you_ , he asks his reflection.  
He gets a grimace in return.  
  
After some time, the hallucinations start.  
They seem to crawl out of the corners of his mind palace.  
_Do you know what would help you_?, a grinning Moriarty, whose head is a bloody mess, says to him one night, _your old friend Cocaine, Sherlock_.  
  
Sherlock stares at Moriarty numbly. He is sitting on the couch, a blanket wrapped around himself. He is shaking. The longer he stays awake, the colder he gets. The cold drives through his bones. It is omnipresent.  
  
Cocaine ... Forgetting. Forgetting for a moment.  
The desire is great.  
But somehow, he has no strength to get up. And there's still John's voice warning him softly, quietly not to ...  
  
John is everywhere here anyway. Has somehow left his marks on every corner of the flat. Sherlock sees him sitting in the armchair, and standing in the kitchen, and writing on his blog at the table. He hears John laughing and sometimes scolding half heartily.  
  
_Sherlock, is that a head in the fridge? Why is there a head in our fridge?!_  
  
Ghosts everywhere. They come and go. Once he even sees Redbeard happily jumping around the room.  
  
It should scare him.  
But he does not care.  
~~In~~ these days everything is indifferent to him. He watches the ghosts and tries not to fall asleep.  
  
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a very real Mycroft stands in front of him. He looks angry. But there is also something else in his gaze ... pity. Sherlock hates it.  
  
"Mrs. Hudson called me ... She says you have not moved for days, Sherlock."  
  
"Go away," Sherlock says softly.

"Sherlock ... you may not believe that, but I'm worried about you. You look terrible. When was the last time you ate something proper? Or had a shower? Mrs. Hudson also says you're talking to someone. To _whom_?"  
  
Sherlock smiles weakly. "Wouldn’t you like to know," he says almost teasingly.  
  
Mycroft shakes his head. The gesture has something resigning. "You know that I cannot just watch you destroying yourself. How long until you ... until you will return to old habits?"  
  
_Old habits._  
Sherlock feels a faint whiff of anger.  
"Why do you care anyway? Why does anyone care? After all, it's my decision what to do with my life. "  
He hesitates. The next words are like a confession of his own naivety. But what does it matter now? Nothing …  
"For too long I wanted to do what was right for others. For too long I have wasted my time trying to help others. I have even died for other people. Not one of them is worth it."  
  
Not one, not even John Watson?  
No.  
Not even John Watson.  
  
"I now know what comes out of it. And I have had enough. You should be happy," Sherlock says bitterly.  "You have been right all this time; don’t you want to toast to it?" He ironically lifts an imaginary glass. "Cheers!"  
He coughs violently.  
  
Mycroft frowns.  
"Sherlock. I know that ... that this is not easy for you. But this flat is full of memories that will only pull you down even more. Stay with me for a few days. It would not be the first time."  
  
And the next moment, Mycroft reaches out to Sherlock with his free hand. The other tightens around the handle of the umbrella.  
  
Sherlock stares at the hand.  
  
Mycroft did reach out for him like this once already ... no. Twice.  
  
He remembers a time when he had taken the hand - and one when he had slapped it away.  
  
_He is five years old and considers himself to be Peter Pan. Peter Pan can fly. Sherlock cannot._ _  
He lands face first in wet grass and sprains his right hand. He cries more out of reflex than pain.  
Mycroft stands in front of him, crossing his arms over his chest, sighing. "Oh Sherlock. You have to be the clumsiest child in England. How many times do you want to break something this year?"  
But then a smile spreads over his face and he hands Sherlock his hand.  
"Come on."  
Sherlock rubs the tears from his cheeks and takes the hand.  
  
He is 21 and surprised. Surprised to see the dirty, starless sky overhead. Surprised to hear Mycroft's panicked voice beside him. Surprised to be alive.  
"What did you take, Sherlock? What? Tell me!"  
Sherlock puts a hand over his sweaty face numbly.  
His body feels heavy. As if he had a weight on his chest.  
Somewhere, a car honks and Sherlock's head is haunted by a sharp pain.  
The world is too loud.  
Mycroft is too loud.  
"Sherlock!"  
"Go away," Sherlock murmurs, taking his hand off his face and giving Mycroft an angry look from clouded eyes, "you should not even be here."  
Mycroft looks hurt and startled. He falls silent. But he reaches out to Sherlock. His hand shivers slightly.  
Sherlock slaps it away.  
He closes his eyes and turns to the side.  
He stares at the wall opposite, at barely legible smearing and offensive graffiti, while Mycroft calls an ambulance in a strangled voice.  
_  
Mycroft exhales audibly as Sherlock takes his hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet.  
There's a hint of a smile on the face of the older Holmes.

*  
  
Mycroft needs to get used to it.  
That he is no longer alone in his big house.  
  
He startles when Sherlock flushes the loo in the bathroom above or slams his door shut.  
  
He raises his head in astonishment when soft violin music floats down through the floorboards to him.  
  
The music is melancholic. It sounds like longing and bitterness.  
It sounds lost.  
  
It's not the first time Sherlock expresses feelings with his music.  
  
Mycroft remembers very different days, when the music that reached him was merry. When it carried a lightness that surprised him whenever he went upstairs to the apartment on Baker Street and heard it.  
  
John Watson. The music from Sherlock's heart.  
  
Mycroft sighs and signs another devastating document he found on his desk in the morning.  
  
Meanwhile, very different thoughts busy him.  
  
A storm is raging inside Sherlock. Mycroft can see it. He presents himself as calmly as possible to his surroundings. But inside it looks different. Almost every night, Mycroft can hear Sherlock screaming. Nightmares. He can imagine exactly what the content of these nightmares must be ...  
In the morning, it's a struggle to convince Sherlock to eat something. Even though Mycroft's housekeeper, who has known Sherlock since he was a child, gives him far too many delicacies and sweets.  
Sometimes Mycroft can see Sherlock's lips move. Like he's talking to someone. Someone only he can see.  
It is terrifying.  
  
There's a term for what's wrong with Sherlock.  
John Watson would certainly know it.  
  
_Post-traumatic stress disorder._

Mycroft had feared it, but had still hoped for so long that Sherlock could get out of it unscathed. Now he realizes that he has fooled himself. After all, it's his brother he’s talking about. His brother, who has an almost eidetic memory. His brother, who has a flourishing imagination and can perfectly visualize everything. His brother, who is as sensitive and emphatic as no one, who only knows him as the "Consulting Detective", would suspect.  
  
He still feels sick to his stomach when he remembers the day he got Sherlock out of this unspeakable basement. Sherlock's eyes were ... empty. There was a smile on his face almost immediately when he caught sight of Mycroft. A mocking slogan wrestled from his dry throat. But his eyes - they were empty. A sign for what would come.  
  
And it could get a lot worse. Could destroy Sherlock. Could bring him back to dark abysses.  
He can not let that happen.  
Sherlock needs help.  
Needs distraction.  
Has to talk. Talk about what happened.  
Has to process it.  
  
But …  
  
He cannot bring his brother to a mental facility. He already knows what the result would be. This is one of the things that Mycroft does not want to try a second time.  
His parents are not an option either. If they knew what had happened to Sherlock, they would ... Mycroft did not like the idea of what would happen.  
He himself ... he himself has moved away from Sherlock over time.  
  
But what's left for him?  
  
There is only one person who has managed to get through to Sherlock lately. Who has managed to make him happy. Really happy.  
  
John Watson.  
All directions lead to him.  
Lead to this man, who came into Sherlock’s life once and now refused to leave it.  
  
But the conditions under which Sherlock and John met again have been more than ... unfortunate.  
  
Mycroft sighs.  
He picks up the phone.  
  
He has a long call ahead of him. One who requires all the nerves he can muster.  
  
He must make it clear to John Watson that his brother needs him. Now.  
  
And after John understands this, he'll find out that he's going to a cottage in Sussex with Sherlock.  
  
The tickets for the train are already booked when he dials the number.

 


	2. Unsteady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait <3  
> I hope you are going to like this chapter.  
> Please don't hesitate to tell me about any mistakes, thanks!

The rain drums gently on Mycroft's umbrella as he stands in front of the small cafe on the corner, waiting.  
He’s smoking a cigarette.  
A slight feel of déjà vu comes over him.  
  
John Watson is late this time.  
He finally shows up with a grim face and stern, long strides, his hands clenched into fists loosely next to his body. And although he looks angry, Mycroft can sense that he somehow is already ready for the fight. Ready to go into the next battle. Ready for Sherlock and anything Sherlock could pull him into.  
Mycroft almost smiles.  
Some things never change, do they?  
  
"Hello, John," he says as the other man finally stands in front of him.  
He flicks the cigarette aside.  
  
"Mycroft," John says firmly, his chin high. The rain runs off his face, which looks tired. It tells of too little sleep and too many thoughts.  
  
"Should we go in?" Mycroft asks, pointing to the door. He closes his umbrella, shakes off the rain and goes inside.  
John follows him with his loud, firm steps.  
  
~

Mycroft stirs slowly and evenly in his cup of coffee. The spoon bumps gently against ceramic.  
Opposite him sits John Watson, his face hidden in both hands. His whole body is tense. Mycroft can see the veins on his neck standing out.  
  
He takes a sip.  
Puts the cup down.  
Drums a restless rhythm against the edge of the table with his fingertips.  
He waits. Waits for John to break free from his rigidity.  
  
There are documents between them on the table.  
Records.  
Pictures.  
Evidence.  
Scattered across the table.  
Slightly crumpled, where disbelieving fingers have clung to the paper.  
  
At some point, John's tension dissolves. He slowly takes his hands off his face. He blinks, as if awakening from a long, disturbing dream. He gives Mycroft a quick look, then his eyes wander over the papers on the table again.  
He swallows and closes his eyes for a moment. Frowns. Then he clears his throat.  
"Why," he asks hoarsely.  
  
Mycroft raises his eyebrows questioningly. " _Why_?"  
  
"Why didn’t you tell me?" John licks his lips quickly. "I could have helped. I was a soldier. I would have ... if I had been there ..."  
  
Mycroft sighs. He can do nothing to stop the slight pity that rises in him. "John ... Believe me. I suggested exactly that to my brother. Unfortunately, Sherlock has enforced his own will, as usual. He wanted to keep you and the others safe. If you had come with him, you would have been constantly in the sight ~~s~~ of the enemies. An unthinkable - unbearable - thought for Sherlock, obviously."  
  
John stares at him. There is a mixture of disbelief, incomprehension and confusion in his eyes.  
  
_He really doesn’t know_ , Mycroft understands at this moment. _He doesn’t know or doesn’t want to know.  
_  
"God," John finally mumbles, pressing a hand against his forehead. "But that ... how could you let that happen? Surely you were always close on his heels, right? Had every camera checked. Distributed your men everywhere. Why couldn’t you prevent it?"  
  
Mycroft takes a sip of coffee. John’s words cause a distant pain in his heart.  
  
_Why didn’t you stop it?  
Why?  
Redbeard certainly didn’t have to die!  
Why did you let him die?_  
An echo in his head.  
Long-gone words.  
The pleading eyes of eight-year-old Sherlock. In his trembling hands, a dog collar that is no longer needed. Redbeard ...  
  
Mycroft shakes his head.  
  
"I ... just before Serbia happened, my brother and I had a fight. When he phoned me, I could sense that he was euphoric. That he knew he was nearing the end and was on the verge of returning to London. I was afraid that he might become careless. So I warned him to concentrate fully on this job. I was harsh. He didn’t react well. He made it clear to me that he knew how to do his job. Told me to piss off. Then he hung up. And suddenly he began to cover his tracks so well that even I had trouble following them."  
  
He closes his eyes for a moment as memories come over him. About the beginning of panic. About burning concern. Pictures of a dead Sherlock in front of his eyes. A bullet in the head. Blind eyes staring into the sky ...  
  
"When we were finally able to find him, several weeks had passed. He was in Serbia to infiltrate a smuggling ring. Apparently, he made a mistake while doing so. He had been captured. They tortured him for information. Luckily, I was able to go undercover and gain the trust of the kidnappers quite quickly. I got him out. But as you can see in the pictures, Sherlock had to endure several days of interrogation."  
  
He clears his throat and looks intently at John, who seems to be slightly sick.  
  
"Dr. Watson. My brother is a different person now. He does not want to admit it to himself, but these two years have not left him untouched. What he had to do ... the violence. The loneliness. The torture at the end. He is different now. I can feel it. He has nightmares. Almost every night. I hear him screaming. Sometimes his hands are shaking so hard that tea spills out of his cup. Or he starts talking to someone who is not there."  
Mycroft falls silent and looks at John meaningfully. "I am sure you are well acquainted with these symptoms."  
  
John swallows. "Yes," he mumbles. "Yes. I ... I'm familiar with them." He involuntarily rubs his shoulder.  
  
Mycroft nods. "Then you know that it can get worse. I am afraid that Sherlock is standing in front of an abyss and is about to fall in. So far, he has not returned to drugs, but who knows how long that will last. His old habits have taught him what cocaine can do. I fear the moment when he no longer cares about the many negative side effects of it."  
  
John stares into his tea. "Maybe an appropriate clinic would be ..."  
  
"No," Mycroft says immediately, shaking his head. "I can’t send Sherlock to a clinic. Hardly anyone could respond to his special needs. We have ... already had negative experiences regarding this option. John, you know him. And that's why he needs you."  
  
John shakes his head and snorts. He strokes a hand over his face. "I am certainly not what he needs."  
  
Mycroft leans forward a bit. "You are exactly what he needs, John. He doesn’t need me or a foreign therapist. He needs you. You alone."  
  
"But why? Why are you so sure that I can help him? What if I make it worse?"  
  
Mycroft shakes his head and sighs. "You are more important to Sherlock than you think, John. In a way you might understand, if you would allow yourself to engage in it. You can help him. You will help him. Trust me."  
  
He gets up and takes his umbrella. Takes a last look at John, who looks thoughtful and confused at the same time. And somewhat lost.  
  
"In three days at the train station. I will send you the details by text. Goodbye, dr. Watson."  
  
He doesn’t wait for an answer.  
  
When he leaves the café, the sun is just beginning to set and turns the sky into a hue that reminds him of flowing blood.

~

Sherlock sits on his bed with his eyes closed, trying to find evidence that he and his surroundings are real.  
  
There is much that speaks in favor.  
But also a lot that speaks against it.  
  
There is, for example, the familiar feeling in his head ... the feeling of _not being there_. It comes in waves and makes him feel light and heavy at the same time. It makes breathing difficult.  
  
He opens his eyes and looks down at his hand. John's dog tags are in it. Cool and smooth. Right now, they are like his anchor to reality. He has had them since the case. He took them out of John's nightstand when Baker Street was empty and dark.  
  
_John._  
  
John had been so angry in the restaurant. Sherlock remembers his burning eyes. And his strong hands on his neck.  
  
He swallows.  
What is the reality worth when John is not in it?  
  
He closes his hand around the dog tags and lets the feeling of _not being there_ take over.  
He doesn’t have the strength to fight back.  
  
Without realizing it, he slips off the bed onto the cool floor.  
He curls up and wraps his arms around himself.  
  
~

When Mycroft comes home, it's completely silent in the house. Almost immediately he thinks  
_So it happened. He is gone. He took the chance. Getting drugs somewhere somehow. Where will you find him this time?  
_  
He swallows and slowly walks up the stairs to Sherlock's room. When he opens the door, he expects emptiness.  
But the room isn’t empty.  
On the floor next to the bed is Sherlock, huddled like a sleeping cat. His thin figure, only dressed in his dressing gown, is trembling.  
  
Mycroft inhales sharply. "Sherlock."  
  
Relief mingles with concern as Sherlock doesn’t respond to his voice.  
  
He rushes to his brother and sinks to the floor beside him. When he puts his hand on Sherlock's back, he jumps and whimpers softly.  
  
Mycroft's stomach cramps painfully. "Sherlock, it's me. You are safe. Can you hear me?”  
  
Sherlock slowly opens his eyes and blinks in Mycroft's face. He seems dazed. "Mycroft?"  
  
"Yes it's me. What happened, Sherlock?"  
  
"Hmm. Cold," Sherlock reaches for his forehead with a trembling hand. Then he looks around and shakes his head. "He isn’t here."  
  
"Who, Sherlock?" Mycroft asks worriedly.  
  
But Sherlock doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes and sinks into Mycroft's arms.  
  
"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft murmurs, stroking his brother’s back.  
  
_It will be alright.  
I’ll make sure that everything is going to be alright.  
Even if I can’t be the one who gives you what you need.  
I lost my chance long ago.  
But John Watson still has his in his hands.  
I am sure of that …_  
  
~

 _He needs you._  
  
Mycroft's words echo in his head.  
  
_You can help him._  
  
The words cause a mess in his head. He is upset.  
But there is anger in him, too.  
  
_I needed him too_ , John thinks bitterly and throws another sock into his suitcase. They are a mess. Sherlock would hate it.  
Sherlock.  
He feels the absurd urge to break into a fit of laughter and presses a hand over his mouth.  
It's always about Sherlock, isn’t it?  
  
_I needed him. Where was he? Where was he when I needed him? Where?  
He could have let me in. I wouldn’t have died. Wouldn’t have been ballast for him.  
I would have helped him. With everything.  
I would have followed him anywhere._  
  
He realizes how that sounds and angrily throws a shoe against the opposite wall.  
But it is the truth.  
  
_I'm an idiot.  
But in the end I am there.  
I am with him.  
Where else would I be?  
_  
Suddenly, Mary stands in the door.  
"Everything okay?"  
  
"No," John says. "No. Nothing is okay. I should ... I should just stay here."  
  
Mary looks at him for a moment. Then she gently shakes her head.  
"No, John. You will go. We already talked about it."  
She smiles sadly. "You talked about him all the time."  
  
John stares at her, a pair of shorts in his hands. He begins to nervously fiddle with them.  
_All the time …_  
"Mary ..."  
  
"No. It's okay. I ... I have realized that there are some things I cannot do ... some gaps that I cannot fill. You have a yearning in you John. It is always there. I can feel it."  
She strokes through her blond hair and then crosses her arms in front of her chest. It is a defensive gesture.  
And slowly it dawns on him what this is leading to.  
  
"You're breaking up with me," he says slowly. His fingers tense into the fabric of his shorts. "For real?"  
  
"Yes," Mary says softly. "I guess so. At least I will ... keep my distance for now. I'm sorry, John. It is better if we go our separate ways. You have Sherlock again and ... "  
  
"For God's sake," he groans as he realizes what she seems to suggest. "We are not a couple. We were never a couple and we will never be one! Why do I always have to tell people that?!"  
  
She looks at him attentively. "Yes, John," she says softly. "Why do you have to do that?"  
  
He stares at her, speechless.  
  
She smiles at him gently - almost sadly - and then turns around.  
  
John can sense that there is something unsaid between them. It is penetrating and yet not really tangible.  
  
_What are you keeping from me, Mary?  
What else have I done?  
Did I talk in my sleep?_  
  
He dreamed about Sherlock. Of course. Often enough. Has seen him fall. Again and again. Heard the impact. The dull sound of breaking bones.  
In those dreams, he wanted to run to Sherlock, but he had never left where he stood.  
Did he scream Sherlock's name?  
  
"Mary," he says quickly. "I was serious."  
  
Mary stops. But she does not look at him again.  
He wonders if she is crying.  
"I know, John. I know. Goodbye.”  
  
Then she is gone.  
  
~

Sherlock looks at Mycroft, stunned. "What?"  
  
"I said you will go to our cottage in Sussex. For a while. With John Watson."  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth. Closes it again. He runs a hand over his mouth and shakes his head.  
"That ... you cannot be serious. John is ... he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me anymore. He made that very clear to me."  
  
Mycroft sighs. "I talked to him. He is ready to stay with you for some time. Until you feel better."  
  
"That's absurd! I will not go."  
  
"Then you are forcing me to take other measures. There's a good clinic not far from here ... " The next moment he already feels bad for those words when he sees the hint of genuine panic in Sherlock's wide-open, puzzled eyes. But he cannot help himself anymore. This has to work. It has to.  
  
Sherlock swallows hard and then says slowly, "You're blackmailing me?"  
  
"For God’s sake, Sherlock," Mycroft rubs his temples with his fingertips and squeezes his eyes closed. His head hurts. "Could you finally stop that? I do not want to torment you. I want to help you. John wants to help you, too."  
  
Sherlock lowers his head. Staring at his hands lying flat on the table. They tremble slightly. "I don’t need help," he mumbles.  
  
Mycroft can’t believe it.  
Just yesterday he found Sherlock on the floor of his room. Confused and scared. Yet his brother continues to assert that everything is fine. And it's finally too much.  
He loses his composure.  
He beats his fist on the table and Sherlock winces violently.  
"Enough! You should be grateful, you know? Thankful that someone wants you to feel better. Instead of constantly rejecting everyone, you should finally realize that you can’t do this alone. But please, if you need a threat as always to get yourself going, then I will give you one; either you go to Sussex with John or it will be the clinic. Because I won’t do this any longer."  
  
When he stops, he is breathing heavily. There’s sweat on his forehead.  
Sherlock looks at him with wide-open eyes. The next moment he jumps up and hurries out of the room. Somewhere a door slams shut.  
  
Mycroft stays seated, still breathing heavily.  
He looks down at his fist and feels a mixture of sadness and sober serenity.  
Once again, he has played the role that was assigned to him in this story.  
  
How many times more does he have to tear the fragile bond of trust that keeps building up between them?  
  
~

Sherlock looks awful.  
That's John's first thought when he arrives at the train station and sees Sherlock standing with Mycroft at the other end.  
The closer he gets, the more worrisome details he notices.  
  
The doctor in him sees the bloodshot eyes and the pale skin that tells of insomnia. And he is skinny. Usually, Sherlock was slim but within the norm. Slightly muscular even. But now, he's just skinny. Unhealthily thin. John swallows.  
  
_He is really not well.  
Well, no wonder. He was bloody tortured.  
You’ve seen tortured soldiers, Watson.  
You’ve seen their empty eyes and heard their screams in the night, when they lived through it all again and again. _

God.  
  
_What did I get myself into?_  
  
All the anger, all the bitterness of being deceived and left behind, all his prepared words vanish behind the fierce feeling of worry and _I-have-to-help-him_ , which comes over him.  
He wants to hate it.  
But he can’t.  
  
"John," Mycroft says, as John reaches the two brothers and nods politely.  
  
Sherlock says nothing. He just looks at John blankly.  
John avoids his gaze.  
  
Mycroft looks between them and sighs.  
He glances at his watch.  
"The train should be here soon," he explains to the unpleasant silence.  
  
He receives no answer.  
The time passes too slowly.  
It is cold. The air hurts John's lungs. A light mist lies on the tracks, which will soon carry them far away.  
  
Right into the unknown.  
  
He thinks of Mary for a moment.  
She was gone in the morning.  
He didn’t really feel sad. More … distant. And confused.  
He still doesn’t quite understand. Maybe he doesn’t even want to.  
  
The arriving train pulls him out of his thoughts.  
His hand clings to the handle of his suitcase.  
He gives Sherlock a quick look.  
Sherlock looks stoic. But his eyes are restless.  
  
"Well, then," Mycroft says, clearing his throat as the train stops in front of them. "The time for farewell has come."  
  
He looks meaningfully at Sherlock.  
John can see what happens. Can see Sherlock's half-angry, half-bitter look, which he throws at his older brother, before he snatches his suitcase and gets in quickly. Without a word.  
  
Mycroft doesn’t seem to be surprised. He nods once more at John. He speaks his next words softly. "Please take care of him, John. Sherlock can be unpredictable. Especially in this condition."  
  
John swallows and nods. "I will take care of him. I promise."  
  
_You are making a promise that you can’t keep. Not good, Watson._  
  
He shakes off the thought.  
  
Mycroft smiles briefly. So fleeting that a moment later John is not sure if he has seen it. "Thanks, John. Good luck."  
  
John licks his lower lip nervously. Then he just nods to Mycroft, takes his own suitcase and drags it onto the train.  
  
He finds Sherlock in the second compartment. When he comes in and heaves his suitcase up into the overhead with a groan, Sherlock glances at him briefly, but then stares out of the window again.  
  
Shortly after John takes his place, the train begins to move. First slowly, then evenly faster.  
Mycroft on the platform looks after them. Leaning on his obligatory umbrella. He is getting smaller. Finally disappears completely.  
  
John plucks at the sleeve of his sweater and clears his throat.  
Sherlock doesn’t react to the noise. He sits there, his head leaning against the window, staring into the distance.  
John restlessly slips lower in his seat.  
There is a lot that he wants to say. But none of it seems to belong here. He can barely take his eyes off Sherlock. It is ... still strange, painful and unbelievable to see him.  
After all this time ...  
After all the mourning. The hope in the beginning that changed into despair and bitterness.  
Finally, he can’t stand the silence and his own thoughts anymore. He asks as casually as possible: "You didn’t just buy a cottage just for this, did you?"  
  
He almost expects Sherlock to ignore him. But after a brief moment, he gets a quiet answer.  
"No. It has belonged to my family for two generations. We sometimes spent the holidays there."  
  
"Ah," John makes. He feels relieved.  
  
Sherlock finally gives him a look. He frowns.  
"I’m only sitting here because Mycroft blackmailed me," he explains, snorting. "Either you go with John or I put you in a clinic." He mimics Mycroft's nasal, arrogant tone perfectly.  
  
John's mouth twitches involuntarily as he suppresses a grin. At last he got a small sign from the Sherlock he knows.  
"He means well, Sherlock. He wants to help."  
  
Sherlock looks at him sharply. "He should leave me alone. Everyone should leave me alone. I don’t need any help. I don’t need sympathy or pity. Nothing happened. I am fine. When will you finally get it and stop treating me like ... like a lunatic."  
  
And he turns away from John as far as possible. Closes his eyes and seems to shut down.  
  
John bites his lower lip.  
_Well done, Watson. Well done._  
He sighs.  
After a moment of fruitless waiting, he leans his head back and closes his eyes.  
The rest of the journey passes in icy silence.  
  
~  
  
When they reach their destination, it's noon.  
East Dean.  
A small town in Southern Down.  
  
Hardly anyone is to be seen on the streets. Only two children on bicycles meet them and give them prying eyes. John can hear them giggling and whispering as they pass by.  
He smiles crookedly.  
Of course, they somehow seem out of place as obvious city dwellers. He briefly wonders if Sherlock's celebrity reaches this far. And then he wonders, if anyone else even knows that Sherlock isn’t lying in a grave …  
  
The air is fresh. John can actually taste the difference to the air in London. A soft drizzle falls on them as they pass by a few houses, made of gray stone with brown-red roofs.  
  
Sherlock walks silently, and John follows him, hoping that the cottage is not too far away. His neck and shoulders are still hurting from the train ride.  
But the next moment, they turn a corner and John sees it.  
  
The cottage is a postcard-worthy sight. Nestled in a deep green meadow which is covered with wildflowers. Framed by apple trees and stout, old beech trees. The cottage itself is big and massive. Gray stone, overgrown here and there with ivy. Two floors. Large windows that will surely let a lot of sunlight into the building.  
  
"Not bad," John says.  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes next to him and walks on without another glance at John. He rummages in his coat pocket and brings out a key. Without further hesitation he opens the door and disappears into the building.  
  
John sighs, raises his suitcase with a groan and follows him.  
  
Inside it is cool. A slightly musty smell is in the air. Sherlock rumbles up a flight of stairs. John decides to first explore the lower floor, as he doesn’t know his way around here yet.  
He hangs his jacket on a hook beside a - he frowns in surprise - yellow children's raincoat. A remnant of Sherlock's childhood?  
He plans to ask later.  
  
He leaves his suitcase by his jacket and stretches until he can hear it crack in his shoulders. He grimaces. Old man …  
  
He saunters slowly down the hall. His steps produce a dull echo. He is walking on stone. It is slightly dusty. It tickles his nose.  
When he opens a door, he sees a storage room, which is empty except for some old bikes that are covered with spider webs.  
He continues into a room that is clearly the kitchen. A dining table with four chairs, a kitchen unit in which nothing seems to be missing.  
John opens the big fridge and nods in satisfaction. They are well equipped. As Mycroft has promised, someone has obviously taken care of that before they arrived.  
He looks around the kitchen. Finds a kettle, cups and tea.  
  
"We have the most important thing," he says softly to himself and sighs.  
He starts to make tea.  
It is a familiar act.  
Familiar is good. Especially now.  
  
When he's done, he goes in search of Sherlock.  
  
He finds him upstairs in a bedroom. It is quite spartan. A table in the corner, a simple wooden chair. A wardrobe. And a bed.  
"There's another bedroom downstairs," Sherlock murmurs without looking at John, throwing underpants and socks out of his suitcase onto the bed.  
  
"Okay," John scratches his neck. He swallows. "I made tea. Do you want a cup? "  
  
Sherlock frowns. "I am tired. I would prefer to go to sleep." He begins to fold his socks with mechanical hand movements, at a rapid pace.  
  
John blinks in confusion. "It's ... not even three o'clock in the afternoon."  
  
Sherlock stops in his movements. He slowly straightens up and stares at John. "And?"  
  
John shrugs. "It's pretty early to go to sleep ..."  
  
"I'm tired," Sherlock repeats. This time, there is a suppressed anger in his words. John decides to leave it at that.  
  
"Alright. I ... I'll be downstairs then," he leaves the room almost hastily.  
  
Yes.  
Sherlock is definitely not himself.  
  
The rest of the day, John spends in his own bedroom. Thinking of a battle plan.  
  
~

The first night in the cottage is a nightmare in a nightmare for Sherlock.  
Shadows haunt him in his sleep. Creep after him with icy hands.  
  
He hears himself shouting and wakes up with a strangled gasp.  
His heart is racing in his chest.  
He gasps and presses both hands against his head.  
Pulls on his own hair until the pain dispels the anxiety and the feeling of _not being there_.  
  
He notices that sweat runs down his back. Everything is wet and cold.  
He throws himself on his stomach and buries his head in the pillows. Puffs out a strangled whimper.  
He suddenly remembers that he isn’t in Mycroft's house anymore.  
He is in Sussex.  
With ... with John.  
  
John is here.  
John is in the room below him.  
  
Oh God.  
  
What if he heard it? What if he ... if he comes up?  
Sherlock shudders and listens anxiously for a moment for sounds from below.  
But there is nothing.  
He only hears his own heartbeat echoing unnaturally loud in his ears.

He throws himself on his back and stares at the ceiling.  
Tick Tock makes the clock on the wall.  
Tick Tock.  
He decides to take it down tomorrow.  
  
He stays awake until dawn.  
Until the shadows seem less threatening.  
  
~

In the morning, when he enters the kitchen, John throws him a strange look.  
  
"What?" Sherlock asks irritably. He grabs a glass and fills it with cold water from the tab.  
  
"You were dreaming," John says carefully. "I heard a scream."  
  
"Aha." Sherlock shrugs and drinks. He is a little nauseous.  
  
_I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want …_  
  
" Does that happen often?"  
  
_Stop asking. Stop John. I can’t talk about it. I can’t._  
  
"It seemed ... to be very bad. I know about nightmares. If you want to talk about it ... "  
  
"I DO NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS!" Sherlock roars and John takes a step backwards. He looks startled and confused.  
  
Sherlock turns away, breathing heavily. His fingers clench around the glass in his hand. He hastily puts it on the kitchen counter.  
Then he flees.  
  
~

Sherlock stares into his own eyes in the mirror in the bathroom and strokes over his face.  
  
_I should tell him. Should tell him what it’s like.  
That I feel like I'm going crazy.  
It is John.  
Not Mycroft.  
If it's John, it's okay.  
John is safe.  
John will understand.  
John can help.  
_  
_Yes.  
He is here to help, why should he think badly of me?  
I will tell him.  
I have to tell him.  
_  
_Do you really want that?_ Asks a voice in his head that once again sounds suspiciously like Moriarty. Mocking and malicious.  
_Do you want him to see you like this?_  
_Broken?  
In need of help?_  
_Do you want to see pity in his eyes?_  
_Do you want him to treat you as if you were as fragile as glass?_  
_Do you want him to handle you with kid gloves and finally realizes that you're no good for anything anyway? Why should he stay with you when you can’t offer him what he needed so much back then? The adrenaline rush that makes him feel alive?  
_  
_Do you want that?_  
  
No.  
  
Sherlock bites his own hand until he can taste blood.  
  
_No._  
  
~

Two days pass in a tedious rhythm.  
And quiet.  
Very quiet.  
  
John tries to find a routine. But no matter how he designs it, Sherlock doesn’t follow him.  
Sherlock is different.  
It takes a while before John realizes how different Sherlock is now.  
He used to be alive and whimsical ... bored ~~in~~ one moment, euphoric and excited the next.  
But now he is absent. Slow. Impassive.  
And distant.  
So distant that it seems to John like there’s a wall between them.  
A wall he will have to climb over. But does he have the strength for that? The patience? The calmness?  
Somehow, he’s too scared to find out.  
It's a vicious circle.  
  
Sherlock spends most of the day in his room. He sits on his bed, in his dressing gown, staring at the opposite wall. An unfamiliar stubble on his face. His hair, previously flawless, dull and full of knots.  
That's how John finds him when he's looking for him. If he wants to get him for breakfast, lunch or dinner.  
It tears him up inside.  
  
When he asks Sherlock if he'll come downstairs, he usually shakes his head. But on the second day John doesn’t back down.  
"You have to eat something," he says urgently. "Come downstairs."  
  
And to his surprise, Sherlock slowly gets up from the bed and follows him down the stairs in a sluggish trot.  
  
They sit down at the table and John watches as Sherlock stares blankly at the bowl of cereal in front of him, takes his spoon and unenthusiastically pushes some of the mass into his mouth.  
  
John sighs in relief and takes his own spoon.  
He feels inwardly tired. Numb. Besides all his concern for Sherlock, he still feels the anger he felt when Sherlock suddenly appeared in front of him.  
The bewilderment.  
He spent two years in grief and bitterness and self-hatred.  
And all that time, Sherlock's grave had been empty.  
And Mary ...  
John's face involuntarily darkens at the thought.  
  
"Mary has left you," Sherlock notes matter-of-factly at that exact moment.  
  
John swallows and dips his spoon in his cereal too fast. A bit of milk spills over the edge. "Yes. She probably has."  
  
"And you are sad about it. Disappointed. But ... ", Sherlock raises his head and stares intently at John. His eyes widen slightly, as if he had made a particularly important discovery. But no excited glimmer enters them. And his voice remains blank. "You are sadder for her than you are for yourself. You feel like you have exploited her. That you have exploited her helpfulness and her kindness and ... "  
  
"Shut up, Sherlock," John growls, clenching his free hand into a fist. "Shut. Up."  
  
Sherlock stops and stares at John. John avoids his gaze and takes a deep breath. He quickly takes his cup of tea and sips.  
  
"You're mad at me," Sherlock finally says, pushing his barely-stirred cereal aside and leaning back in the chair.  
  
John puts his cup of tea hard on the table. "Damn right. I am angry."  
  
Sherlock nods. He looks at John blankly. "You have every right to be. Do not hold back. Shout at me. You can beat me again if you want to. Do it."  
  
John stares at him, stunned. He swallows. Then he takes a deep breath.  
Good. Okay. Time to talk plainly …  
"Sherlock ... Do you even have the slightest idea what it was like? What it was like to believe that you took your life ... that I could not prevent your suicide? That I did not notice anything? I blamed myself, you know? For a very long time. You should have noticed, I told myself. Over and over again. You of all people should have noticed something."

He shakes his head and looks down at his hands, unable to look Sherlock in the eye.  
  
"I detested myself, Sherlock. I stood in front of the mirror wondering if I could really live with myself. I was at ... at many low points. But I continued. Always continued. Greg and Mrs. Hudson helped. Mary helped. I was on a good path. And then ... then you stand in front of me. Out of nowhere. I doubted my mind. I was confused and angry. So incredibly angry. I didn’t even know if I’ve ever been that angry before ... "  
  
John shakes his head and smiles crookedly.  
  
"But - I am here. I'm here. Do you know why, Sherlock?"  
John raises his head and looks at Sherlock. He looks into eyes that - finally - show a movement of emotion. Astonishment is in them. Astonishment, confusion and a certain tiredness that hurts John deep inside. He swallows and continues talking.  
  
"I am here because, when I stood at your grave, I asked you for a miracle ..."  
  
"I know," Sherlock says softly. His voice sounds strangled. "I heard you."  
  
John nods. He isn’t really surprised. He ~~has~~ had a certain feeling back then. The feeling of being observed ...  
"Then you know that I begged you not to be dead. And now you are here. You are here and it is a miracle. It’s like a … a second chance. So Sherlock, I beg you, let me help you. We can’t ... we can’t get the past back. What is gone is gone. But we can shape the future together. I am here and I want to help. If you just let me."  
  
Sherlock stares at him. He swallows hard. He opens his mouth. And for a moment John thinks he'll say yes.  
But no word comes from Sherlock's mouth. Only a strangled moan.  
Then he shakes his head and jumps up abruptly. Flees from the kitchen.  
Stumbles up the stairs.  
And the next moment the bathroom door slams shut. Hard.  
  
John stays and stares straight ahead.  
He feels numb.  
The hint of hope that has seized him for a moment ebbs slowly, giving way to the bitter feel of new failure.  
  
~

Sherlock is standing in the bathroom, leaning on the sink with both hands, breathing hard.  
  
Thoughts race through his head.  
John's words ... So full of honesty and ... and trust.  
God. John has been in front of an abyss himself.  
An abyss as deep as Sherlock would never have thought possible.  
  
Sherlock closes his eyes.  
It's his fault.  
It is his fault alone.  
He drove John to the edge of this abyss.  
  
And as the emotions in him turn over, the next attack comes ...  
  
It starts slowly. Barely noticeable.  
A slight dizziness.  
A feeling in the pit of his stomach. Not quite a tingling, closer to a flutter.  
It wanders through his body, down to his toes.  
Then a shiver overcomes him.  
Goose bumps on his arms.  
A strange feeling in his head. Pressure.  
A noise in his ears.  
He turns cold and hot at the same time.  
  
Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. Something ... something is wrong.  
  
He feels like he is in the transition from dream to reality.  
An unstable balancing act.  
  
But what is the dream? What the reality?  
  
_Oh God.  
What if I just imagined this? What if I imagined everything? John. Mycroft. The journey to Sussex …  
What if I’m not in this cottage but still in_  
Serbia.  
He is in Serbia.  
Water drips steadily on his head.  
Something warm hastens over his bare feet.  
Rat. A rat.  
Silent squeaking fades away somewhere in the dark.  
The animal is captured. Just like him.  
Involuntary cellmates.  
He can feel blood running down his back in small streams.  
It was not so long ago that they were here.  
The shadows.  
And they will come back.  
They will come back ...  
They always come back.  
  
No.  
No, that's over ... that's wrong.  
He is  
_in Sussex. Why in Sussex?  
Because Mycroft ... there was something with Mycroft.  
  
John?  
_  
He gasps and holds on to the sink, his fingers trembling.  
He looks at his own fear-ridden face in the mirror and feels a mixture of disgust, anger and bitterness.  
  
_What difference would it make if I smashed that mirror, took a shard, and cut my wrists?  
Would it not mean fewer problems for everyone?  
For me.  
For Mycroft.  
For ... John.  
_  
_Yes. John is not happy to be here.  
He can’t be happy about it.  
Mary has left him ... Because of me.  
Because of me.  
I should not have come back.  
I wasn’t allowed to take his new life away from him.  
What did I expect?  
_  
The pain is hot and white in his chest.  
He moans and raises a trembling hand. He clenches it to a fist. Lunges forward slowly. Observes himself in the mirror ...  
The damned mirror.  
  
And then he hears John's voice.  
"Sherlock? Sherlock!"  
Dull knocking on the door.

 _No John.  
No, you shouldn’t see this ~~.~~  
Not this.  
_  
Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and covers his ears with both hands.  
He suddenly can barely feel his legs. They are weak ... Everything about him is weak.  
He sinks slowly to the ground.  
He wraps his arms around his quivering body and wishes himself far away ...  
  
The next moment the door opens.  
"Sherlock." John's voice is strangled.  
"Sherlock ..."  
  
_John.  
  
Oh god John.  
Help me.  
I think I’m losing my mind ...  
_  
_No.  
No, go John. Go.  
Stay away from me.  
I will always be just a problem.  
I will always drag you to the abyss with me ...  
  
I wanted you to be safe, John.  
I wanted you to be happy.  
That was always what I wanted.  
  
I'm so sorry.  
_  
The thoughts crush him and he lets out a whimper.  
  
And suddenly John is everywhere. Surrounds him. Shields him from the world. And the thoughts. Holds him tight.  
"I'm here. It will be alright. I ... we can do it. Okay? Somehow, we will get through this. Together."  
  
Sherlock wants to push John and his naïve confidence away. Wants to yell at him. Wants him to finally realize. Finally realize that there is no point in staying here.  
But he has no more strength for it.  
  
He can only hang in John's arms.  
Inhale ~~s~~ John's familiar smell.  
Feel ~~s~~ his warmth.  
And he despairs in silence.  
  
~

Later, Sherlock can’t remember exactly how he got into his bed.  
But suddenly he lies there on his back, staring at the ceiling while John removes his socks. Without a word.  
  
It's dark outside.  
  
At some point, John says calmly, "Well ... do you need anything else? A glass of water maybe?"  
  
Sherlock mechanically shakes his head.  
  
John swallows. "Okay. I’ll be downstairs. If you need me, just call, alright? I'm there."  
He walks slowly to the door.  
  
Sherlock turns his head to look after John.  
And suddenly he knows he needs John. Needs him now.  
  
_Don’t go John._  
  
"John."  
  
John stops walking. "Yes?"  
  
Sherlock swallows hard. "Could you ... can you stay here?"  
  
The words sound silly in his own ears.  
Ridiculous.  
Pathetic.  
  
But John says softly, "Yes."  
  
"Really?" Sherlock asks in surprise.  
  
"Yes. Of course."  
  
"I … thank you. Thank you, John." Sherlock feels tears of gratitude in his eyes.  
  
John doesn’t say anything else. He pulls the blanket back a little and then lies down slowly and carefully on the bed beside Sherlock.  
It is quiet for a moment. Sherlock can hear John breathing evenly. It is comforting.  
  
And as Sherlock stares into the dim light in the room, he realizes he can’t keep it to himself anymore.  
It's true.  
He is losing himself.  
He needs help.  
Now or never.  
Because he doesn’t know when he could muster the necessary courage to admit it to himself again ...  
Sometimes you are your own worst enemy.  
  
"John," he says softly and hesitantly.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
Sherlock closes his eyes.  
"I ... I have to tell you something."

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone is wondering: Yes, "Leave A Light On" by Tom Walker really inspired this story. Listen to it. It's an awesome song!
> 
> [Leave A Light On](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nqnkBdExjws) by Tom Walker
> 
> Say hello on [Tumblr](http://currently-in-my-mind-palace.tumblr.com/) :)  
> Beta: [bakerstreet-irregular](http://bakerstreet-irregular.tumblr.com/)


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